And here, below the image, the other story of inspiration Baustelle. ---
The last straw fell into the full glass of cognac. The man looked inside, small ripples branch out from the center to the edge of the glass.
I saw a picture of reflection. An image that was not his.
The features of a face already known stand blurry at first, then more crisp and clean.
was the friend of a lifetime, the past to make his farewell in that weird way.
She could not forget the joy of the previous month, the last Once they had met, fifteen years later when they were little more than boys.
had chosen the exact same bar as it was now, as a place to enshrine the revival of a friendship too often set aside in a corner without a reason except that time he had accumulated dust.
Yet, in spite of their faces, their bodies and even their thinking had changed, had managed to find themselves as if they had never been away. On that night of friendship talked until dawn, telling all that had happened in those fifteen years, everything had changed their views on world and life, remembering that he had seen every episode related to children. Seemed that the time had wanted to make a gift that night to keep: despite everything had changed, nothing had changed.
They ordered a bitter head, the words flowing like the two glasses slid down their throats. How many things were different, how different was life in the province for a friend now that he had found beside his wife and children, how hard life was for him as a bachelor in the metropolis, which had left the country without having the courage to say hello because, you know, two men should not cry. Perhaps, the beginning of all the resentment and the silence had gone from there. Folli.
remember when their greatest achievement was to reach the pond beyond the periphery, provided with hooks and torches, to try to catch frogs. With danger on him, it was just one of the dark and fear of slipping into the icy water and marshland. Feeling heroic, did not take much, those days.
The image of the friend I vanished from the mirror as he greeted the cognac. Alright, seemed to say that hand. Despite the incident had on the way back after their last meeting. Despite the death. A hand that he had imagined, but that there was indeed, perhaps to quell once and for all the guilt that gripped him since he had known.
Scola that cognac, his way of responding to greet and say goodbye, do not forget as long as I live, nor night, nor the memory of the boy, with his sandals, his courage, the joy of their shipments to hunt frogs in that pond just outside the village.
He asked the waiter the bill, paid, and then visited the given process from the same patient guy.
Then he wept, he wept at last, because two men do not ever have to cry together, but a man, alone, yes.
Fabio Mele Tale of 27/07/2010.
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